Young Writers Society

wrong for me to think these thoughts, perhaps
imagining you entwined with another man
far too young to be thinking these thoughts
certainly none of my business
to have this blurred image of you and
the Him. i imagine
your private world
from which i am forbidden
the mystery world, coated by well planned lies
hidden inside such a beautiful, beautiful web of deceit

who knew you would be the one to break my heart!

i imagine:

a darkened, anonymous room
a jumble of white sheets
shards of broken daylight fling themselves across
the bed, across his torso and yours

clothes lay strewn across a carpeted floor
gathering carpet fluff and the smell of old things
jeans containing his wallet
maybe a picture of him and his kids, their smiling faces
caught in that moment, that happy moment

snap went the camera and
on went their lives,
the minutes, the days
until you tumbled into each other's worlds
making that happy photograph no more a reality
then the shows i watch on television with
the children, huddled together sipping hot chocolate
wondering when we will hear the key in the lock

i imagine the slightly suffocating
smell of flat champagne, mingling with
the smell of dust and long forgotten strangers
who once passed through
on business trips
or perhaps on secret trips for two

circled by his arms
your blonde hair
(that i have supposedly inherited
that i have cut short recently,
dyed black,
much to your surprise and dismay
you stare at me puzzled, wondering why.
you do not know i know.)
fans out across the pillow
your cheek glistens with a kiss
your mind is troubled
you feel the guilt
but listening to his heart beat, maybe you are comforted

but i cannot allow my imagination to wander
letting it slip down dark, lonely lanes
scared, i urge it to come back
urge it to instead wander in fairytales
in lands of Happy Families

you are a ship
so long anchored at one place that,
becoming restless, you tugged until your anchor freed itself
sailed here to this foreign port,
this new embrace

i read your emails now
a kind of delicate self torture in which i indulge
in the longs hours between my entry to the house and yours
i read all he says to you
in his perfect, clipped English
each word of his is a quick stab to my back
i wonder if his love is worth my hate and fear
and all the brokeness you cause

i read them in an awed horror,
sitting in this bright yellow room
with all of its sunshine and fresh air,
listening to the children play by the apple tree
and your husband shout as he drops another plate
cooks another meal
his strong italian words are familiar as the scar on my knee
from falling down the stairs so long ago
(you caught me then, remember?
caught me and i held on so tightly to your hand
when you were still someone and not just 'She')

is he alone in the bright family kitchen, with its scribbled on walls? certainly.
oblivious to this? i dare not find out.

he does not see
inside your world
does not have his faced pressed up against the glass
as i do

he think that perhaps you are late home and saves your dinner in the oven
later i throw it out the window
and wait up so i can smirk while you search the kitchen for it.